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Sleeping with the
Fishes

(A Parable)

Last night I had this dream.

I am an undercover FBI agent who has infiltrated the Mafia.
After months of ingratiating myself with the mobsters, I am
now attending a secret conference of all the heads of all
the Families. It is held in the penthouse suite of a
Mafia-owned building on the waterfront, and security is
incredibly tight. Everyone was searched when they came in,
so I can't carry a gun or a wire, and none of my support
agents can be anywhere nearby. I am totally alone on this
mission.

The meeting is only just starting, and the conversation
still consists of the sort of small talk you get at the
beginning of any meeting. You know, we are talking about our
wives and girlfriends, old acquaintances, baseball scores, who
killed who lately. I have become pretty good at this kind
of Wiseguy chit-chat, and I feel comfortable.

As we gather around the big conference table, the meeting is
called to order, and it turns out that I am the first item
on the agenda.

Someone says: "So where did you get the suit, Joey?"

Suddenly, all eyes are focussed on me, and there is total
silence in the room.

My mind is racing. I am not wearing a suit, only an
open-neck shirt. I don't know what they are talking
about.

"What suit?" I say.

"Don't fuck with us, Joey," the guy says, now deadly
serious. "Where did you get the suit?"

"I hardly ever wear suits," I say. "I got one suit in my
closet, and I think it came from Goodwill."

Someone else says: "That's not the suit we're talking about.
Tell us about the suit."

I am trying to remain calm, but I can feel the sweat
dripping down my face. They know something that I don't,
and it is clear they have found me out. My only
thoughts now are how to get out of this building alive.

"What suit?" I say again, trying to act confused but not
afraid. "A lawsuit? A suit of cards? You guys know I don't
wear suits. Maybe for weddings or funerals, that's it. You
remember Jimmy's niece's wedding last month. I didn't even
wear a suit then."

I look at them, and they all look at me, and nobody says
anything. I can tell the jig is up. I obviously haven't
provided an acceptable answer to their question. I
can't even lie, because I don't know what I am being asked.
For me, the game is over. I have been exposed as a mole,
and I am probably not going to live to the end of the
day.

Given that all my other options are blocked, I resort to the
truth.

"Okay, you have me," I say. "I am an undercover FBI agent.
I have been recording you for months, and indictments will
be coming soon."

Then I add, lying my head off: "You should know that there
is a team of FBI agents waiting outside ready to storm this
place. If anything happens to me, it will be added to the
indictments."

Someone looks out the window. "There is no one outside,
Joey."

"My name is not Joey," I say. "My name is Glenn
Campbell."

"You mean, like the 'Rhinestone Cowboy' Glen Campbell?"
someone says, and they all laugh.

Someone else starts singing, "Like a Rhinestone
Cowboy..."

"Yeah, yeah," I say, brushing it off.

"What are you telling us, Joey?" someone says. Again, there
is silence in the room.

"My real name is Glenn Campbell. I am an FBI agent out of
the Sacramento office. I have infiltrated your
organization, and I have been recording you for months. I
have recorded all of your meetings except this one, and
those tapes are now in the hands of the Attorney
General."

"I saw Adolfo last week," says another mafioso, "just before
he went on vacation. Our families go way back."

"Guess what?" I say, "Adolfo's not coming back from
vacation."

Clearly, not everyone in the room comprehends what I am
saying, so I repeat myself.

"I am not Joey Sorentino. I am Glenn Campbell, an FBI agent
out of the Sacramento office. I have a wife and two kids in
Sacramento who I am probably never going to see again,
because I know you are going to kill me."

Awkward silence.

Nobody knows what to say.

All eyes slowly turn from me to the figure at the other end of the
table: The Big Cheese, the Capo of Capos. He doesn't say
anything either. He looks back at the others, searching the
faces of his associates for clues about what it means. Then
he looks directly at me, and I stare back at him, straight
in the eyes, trying not to show even a hint of weakness.

Then, the big guy starts laughing.

"Love that Joey!" he says, "He's such a cut-up."

Soon, everyone in the room is laughing, including me.

"So, are going to kill me, or what?" I ask, with a smirk on
my face.

The room quiets down, and the Capo turns to the guy on his
right. He's Jimmy, the enforcer from New Jersey, who has
killed maybe a hundred men.

"Take care of it," says the Capo.

Slowly, deliberately, Jimmy reaches into his pocket. He
pulls out his finger, points it at me, and fires.

"Bang!" he says, "You're dead. Now you'll be sleeping with
the fishes."

The room explodes! Everybody thinks it's hilarious,
especially the "sleeping with the fishes" part. If there is
anything real mobsters love to do, it is imitate mobsters in
the movies.

Tommy from the East Side launches into his Marlon Brando
impression: "We'll make him an offer he can't refuse." Tommy
is really good with impressions, and his Brando cracks
everyone up even more.

I have gotten into it myself, and I can't stop laughing.
"No, it's true," I blurt out, "I really am an FBI agent.
Look, I even have an I.D. card."

I take out my I.D. and pass it down the table. Everyone
looks at it in turn. It has my photo on it along with my
real name and the big insignia of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation.

"This is really well done, Joey," someone says, "Where did
you get it?"

"FROM THE FBI!" I say loudly, trying to break through.

"This is fantastic!" another mobster says. "Can I get one?"

I throw up my hands. "Sure, I'll get all of you FBI I.D.
cards. Just give me your name and inmate number and I'll
send it to whatever prison you happen to be in."

"Love that Joey!" they say, everyone in stitches.

I am drumming my fingers on the table now. Everyone else is
still laughing, but to me it has become tedious.

"If you don't mind, I have to go now," I say. "I have to
brief my FBI handlers. You know, I have INDICTMENTS to
prepare."

"Yeah, Joey, you go prepare your indictments. Be sure to
send us copies when you are done."

"Fine, I'll do that," I say, and I storm out of the room in
a make-believe rage. I go downstairs, passing all of the
heavily armed thugs, each of whom says, "Bye, Joey!" as I
pass. I walk out the front door and into the street. I am
free!

There is just one problem. I left my I.D. card behind.

Should I go back for it?

Glenn Campbell, 11/3/05

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